The Lamp of Fate by Margaret Pedler

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The car slid away north with Gillian inside it reflecting ratherruefully upon the very great amount of probability contained in LadyArabella's parting comment.

CHAPTER VII

THE GARDEN OF EDEN

Lady Arabella's big rooms were filling rapidly. The dinner to whichonly a few of the elect had been bidden was over, and now those whohad been invited to the less exclusive reception which was to followwere eagerly wending their way towards Park Lane.

The programme for the evening promised to be an attractive one. A solofrom Antoine Davilof, Lady Arabella's pet lion-cub of the moment; asong from the leading operatic tenor; and afterwards a single dance bythe Wielitzska--who could never be persuaded to perform at any otherprivate houses than those of her godmother and the Duchess ofLichbrooke--the former's half sister. So, in this respect, LadyArabella enjoyed almost a monopoly, and such occasions as the presentwere enthusiastically sought after by her friends and acquaintances.Later, when the artistes had concluded their programme, there was tobe a dance. The ballroom, the further end of which boasted a fair-sized stage, had been temporarily arranged with chairs to accommodatean audience, and in one of the anterooms Virginie, with loving,skilful fingers, was putting the finishing touches to Magda'stoilette.

Magda submitted passively to her ministrations. She was thinking ofMichael Quarrington, the man who had come into her life by suchstrange chance and who had so deliberately gone out of it again. Bythe very manner of his going he had succeeded in impressing himself onher mind as no other man had ever done. Other men did not shun herlike the plague, she reflected bitterly!

But from the very beginning he had shown her that he disapproved ofher fundamentally. She was the "type of woman he hated!" Night and daythat curt little phrase had bitten into her thoughts, stinging herwith its quiet contempt.

She felt irritated that she should care anything about his opinion.But if she were candid with herself she had to admit that she didcare, intensely. More than that, his departure from England had lefther conscious of an insistent and unaccountable little ache. Theknowledge that there could be no more chance meetings, that he hadgone right out of her ken, seemed like the sudden closing of a doorwhich had just been opening to her. It had somehow taken the zest outof things.

"Voila!" Virginie drew back to survey the results of her labours,turning for approval to Gillian, who was in attendance in her capacityof accompanist. "Is it not that mademoiselle looks ravishing?"

"Quite ravishing, Virginie," agreed Gillian. "Did you expect her tolook anything else by the time you had finished decking her out?" sheadded teasingly.

"It is nothing that I do," responded the old Frenchwoman seriously."Mademoiselle cannot help but be beautiful to the eye--/le bon dieu/has created her like that."

"I believe He has," assented Gillian, smiling.

As she spoke the bell of the telephone instrument on the table besideher rang imperatively and she lifted the receiver. Magda, watching herface as she took the message, saw it suddenly blanch.

"Coppertop! . . . He's ill!" she gasped.

"Ill?" Magda could hardly credit it. Two hours ago they had left thechild in perfect health.

"Yes." Gillian swallowed, moistening her dry lips. "They've sent forthe doctor. It's croup. Oh!"--despairingly, and letting the receiverfall unheeded from her grasp--"What am I to do? What am I to do?"

Magda stepped forward, the filmy draperies of the dress in which shewas to dance floating cloudily about her as she moved. She picked upthe receiver as it hung dangling aimlessly from the stand and replacedit on its clip.

"Do?" she said quietly. "Why, you'll go straight home, of course. Asquickly as the car can take you. Virginie"--turning to the maid--"flyand order the car round at once."

Gillian looked at her distractedly.

"But you? Who'll play for you? I can't go! I can't leave you!" Hervoice was shaken by sobs. "Oh, Coppertop!"

Magda slipped a comforting arm round her shoulder.

"Of course you'll go--and at once, too. See, here's your coat"--lifting it up from the back of the chair where Gillian had thrown it."Put it on."

Hardly conscious of what was happening, Gillian allowed herself to behelped into the coat. Suddenly recollection returned.

"But your dance--your dance, Magda? You've forgotten!"

Magda shook her head.

"No. It will be all right," she said soothingly. "Don't worry,Gillyflower. /You've/ forgotten that Davilof is playing hereto-night."

"Antoine?" Gillian stared at her incredulously. "But you can't ask himto play for you! You'd hate asking him a favour after--after hisrefusal to accompany you any more."

Magda smiled at her reassuringly.

"My dear," she said, and there was an unaffected kindliness in hervoice which few people ever heard. "My dear, I'm not going to let alittle bit of cheap pride keep you away from Coppertop."

She bent suddenly and kissed Gillian's white, miserable face just asVirginie reappeared in the doorway to announce that the car waswaiting.

"That would be news to the world at large!" she replied. Thencheerfully: "Now, don't worry, Gillyflower. Remember they've got adoctor there. And 'phone me presently about Coppertop. If he's worse,I'll come home as early as I can get away. Send the car straight backhere."

As soon as Gillian had gone, Magda flung a loose wrap over herdiaphanous draperies and turned to Virginie.

"Where is Monsieur Davilof? Do you know?"

"/Mais oui, mademoiselle/! I saw him through the doorway as I camefrom ordering the car. He is in the library."

Magda went swiftly out of the room. She reached the hall by way of anunfrequented passage and slipped into the library closing the doorbehind her.

"Antoine!"

At the sound of her voice Davilof, who had been standing by the fire,wheeled round.

"You!" he exclaimed violently. "You!" And then remained silent,staring at her.

"You knew I was dancing here to-night," she said chidingly. "Why areyou so startled? We were bound to meet, weren't we?"

"No, we were not. I proposed leaving the house the moment my solo wasover."

Magda laughed a little.

"So afraid of me, Antoine?" she mocked gently.

He made no answer, but his hands, hanging at his sides, clenchedsuddenly.

Magda advanced a few steps towards him and paused.

"Davilof," she said quietly. "Will you play for me to-night?"

He looked at her, puzzled.

"Play for you?" he repeated. "But you have Mrs. Grey."

"No. She can't accompany me this evening."

"And you ask me?" His voice held blank amazement.

"Yes. Will you do it?"

"Do you remember what I told you the last time we met? That I wouldnever play for you again?"

Magda drew her breath slowly. It was hurting her pride far more thanGillian knew or could imagine to ask a favour of this man. And hewasn't going to make it easy for her, either--that was evident. Butshe must ask it, nevertheless. For Gillian's sake; for the sake ofpoor little Coppertop fighting for breath and with no "mummie" at handto help and comfort him; and for the sake of Lady Arabella, too. Afterpromising to dance for her she couldn't let her godmother down bycrying off at the last moment, when all the world and his wife hadcome crowding to her house on the strength of that promise.

So she bent her head in response to Davilof's contemptuous question.

"Yes, I remember," she said quietly.

"And you still ask me to play for you?"

"I still ask you."

Davilof laughed.

"You amaze me! And supposing I reply by saying I refuse?"

"But you won't," dared Magda.

Davilof's eyes held something of cruelty in their hazel depths as heanswered quietly:

"On the contrary--I do refuse."

Her hand went up to her throat. It was going to be more difficult thanshe had anticipated!

"There is no one else who can play for me as you do," she suggested.

"No," fiercely. "Because no one loves you as I do."

"What is the use of saying you love me when you won't do the onelittle thing I ask?" she retorted. "It is not often that I askfavours. And--and no one has ever refused me a request before."

Davilof could hear the note of proud resentment in her voice, and herealised to the full that, in view of all that had passed between themin the Mirror Room, it must have been a difficult matter for a womanof Magda's temperament to bring herself to ask his help.

But he had no intention of sparing her. None but himself knew howbitterly she had hurt him, how cruelly she had stung his pride, whenshe had flung him that contemptuous command: "I shall want youto-morrow, Davilof!--same time." He had unveiled his very soul beforeher--and in return she had tossed him an order as though he were alackey who had taken a liberty. All his pain and brooding resentmentcame boiling up to the surface.

"If I meant anything to you," he said slowly, "if you had even lookedupon me as a friend, you could have asked what you liked of me. Butyou showed me once--very clearly--that in your eyes I was nothing morethan your paid accompanist. Very well, then! Pay me--and I'll play foryou to-night."

"Pay you?"

"Oh, not in money"--with a short laugh.

"Then--then what do you mean?" Her face had whitened a little.

"It's quite simple. Later on there is a dance. Give me a dance withyou!"

Magda hesitated. In other circumstances she would have refused point-blank. Davilof had offended her--and more than that, the revelation ofthe upsettingly vehement order of his passion for her that day in theMirror Room had frightened her not a little. There was somethingstormy and elemental about it. To the caloric Pole, love was love, andthe fulfilment of his passion for the adored woman the supremenecessity of life.

Realising that she had to withstand an ardour essentially unEnglish inits violently inflammable quality, Magda was loth to add fuel to theflame. And if she promised to dance with Davilof she must let him holdher in his arms, risk that dangerous proximity which, she knew now,would set the man's wild pulses racing unsteadily and probably serveas the preliminary to another tempestuous scene.

"Well?" Davilof broke in upon her self-communings. "Have I asked toohigh a price?"

Time was flying. She must decide, and decide quickly. She took hercourage in both hands.

"No," she returned quickly. "I will dance with you, Antoine."

He bowed.

"Our bargain is complete, then," he said ironically. "I shall becharmed to play for you, mademoiselle."

An hour or so later the last burst of applause had died away, and thewell-dressed crowd which had sat in enthralled silence while theWielitzska danced emerged chattering and laughing from the greatballroom.

Their place was immediately taken by deft, felt-slippered men, whoproceeded swiftly to clear away the seats and the drugget which hadbeen laid to protect the surface of the dancing floor. In thetwinkling of an eye, as it were, they transformed what had been to allintents and purposes a concert-hall into a flower-decked ballroom,while the members of the band engaged for the dance began climbingagilely into their allotted places on the raised platform preparatoryto tuning up for the evening's work.

Magda, released at last from Virginie's worshipfully careful hands,came slowly down the main staircase. She was in black, diaphanous andelusive, from which her flower-pale face and shoulders emerged like awater-lily starring the dark pool on which it floats. A crimson roseglowed just above her heart--that and her softly scarlet lips the onlytouches of colour against the rare black-and-white loveliness of her.

She was descending the stairs reluctantly, mentally occupied inscrewing up courage to fulfil her promise to Davilof. A 'phone messagefrom Friars' Holm had come through saying that Coppertop was better.All danger was passed and there was no longer any need for her toreturn early. So it remained, now, for her to keep her pact with themusician.

As she rounded the last bend in the staircase, she saw that a man wasstanding with bent head at the foot of the stairs, apparently waitingfor someone, and she threw a quick, nervous glance in the direction ofthe motionless figure, thinking it might be Davilof himself. It wouldbe like his eager impatience to await her coming there. Then, as thelights gleamed on fair, crisply waving hair she realised that the manwas Michael--Michael, whom she believed to be on his way to Spain!

Perhaps it was merely chance, or perhaps it was at the directinspiration of Lady Arabella, but, whatever may have been the cause,Gillian had not confided to Magda that Quarrington was to be at hergodmother's reception. The sudden, totally unexpected meeting withhim--with this man who had contrived to dominate her thoughts soinexplicably--startled a little cry of surprise from her lips. Shedrew back abruptly, and then--quite how it happened she could nottell--but she missed her footing and fell.

For the fraction of a second she experienced a horrible sensation ofutter helplessness to save herself; then Michael's arms closed roundher as he caught her before she reached the ground.

The shock of the fall stupefied her for a moment. She lay against hisbreast like a terrified child, clinging to him convulsively.

"It's all right," he murmured soothingly. "You're quite safe."

Unconsciously his arms tightened round her. His breath quickened. Thesatin-soft hair had brushed his cheek as she fell; the pale, exquisiteface and warm white throat lay close beneath his lips--all thefragrant beauty of her gathered unresisting against his heart. He hadonly to stoop his head----

With a stifled exclamation he jerked himself backward, squaring hisshoulders, and released her, though he still steadied her with a handbeneath her arm.

"There, you are all right," he said reassuringly. "No bones broken."

The commonplace words helped to restore her poise.

"Oh! Thank you!" The words came a little gaspingly still. "I--I don'tknow how I came to fall like that. I think you startled me--I didn'texpect to see you here."

"I didn't expect to be," he returned, smiling a little.

Magda did not ask how it had come to pass. For the moment it wasenough for her that he /was/ there--that he had not gone away! She wasconscious of a sudden incomprehensible sense of tumult within her.

"It was lucky for me you happened to be standing just at the foot ofthe stairs," she said a little unsteadily.

"I didn't 'happen.' I was there of /malice prepense/"--the familiarcrooked smile flashed out--"waiting for you."

"Waiting for me?"

"Yes. Lady Arabella asked me to shepherd you into the supper-room andsee that you had a glass of champagne and a sandwich before thedancing begins."

"Orders from headquarters?"--smiling up at him.

"Exactly."

He held out his arm and they moved away together. As they passedthrough the crowded rooms one man murmured ironically to another:

"Quarrington's got it badly, I should say."

The second man glanced after the pair with amused eyes.

"So he's the latest victim, is he? I head young Raynham's nose was outof joint."

"You don't mean she's fired him?"

The other nodded.

"Got the push the day before yesterday," he answered tersely.

"Poor devil! He'll take it hard. He's a hotheaded youngster. Just thesort to go off and blow his brains out."

Meanwhile Quarrington had established Magda at a corner table in theempty supper-room and was seeing to it that Lady Arabella's commandswere obeyed, in spite of Magda's assurances that she was not in theleast hungry.

"Then you ought to be," he replied. "After dancing. Besides, unlikethe rest of us, you had no dinner."

"Oh, I had a light meal at six o'clock. But naturally, you can'tconsume a solid dinner just before giving a performance."

"I'm not going to pay you compliments about your dancing," he observedquietly, after a pause. "You must receive a surfeit of them. But"--looking at her with those direct grey eyes of his--"I'm glad I didn'tleave England when I intended to."

"Why didn't you?" she asked impulsively.

He laughed.

"Because it's so much easier to yield to temptation than to resist,"he answered, not taking his eyes from her face.

She flushed a little.

"What was the temptation?" she asked uncertainly.

He waited an instant, then answered with deliberation:

"The temptation of seeing you again."

"I should have thought you disapproved of me far too much for that tobe the case! Saint Michel, don't you think you're rather hard on me?"

"Am I? I had an old-fashioned mother, you see. Perhaps my ideas aboutwomen are out of date."

"Tell me them."

He regarded her reflectively.

"Shall I? Well, I like to think of a woman as something sweet andfragrant, infinitely tender and compassionate--not as a marauder anddespoiler. Wherever she comes, the place should be the happier for hercoming--not bereft by it. She should be the helper and healer in thisbattered old world. That's the sort of woman I should want my wife tobe; that's the sort of woman my mother was."

"And you think I'm--not like that? I'm the marauder, I suppose?"

He remained silent, and Magda sat with her bent head, fingering thestem of her wine-glass restlessly.

"You like my dancing?" she said at last.

"You know I do."

"Well"--she looked at him with a mixture of defiance and appeal. "Mydancing is me--the real me."

He shook his head.

"You're not the 'Swan-Maiden,' whose love was so great that she forgoteverything except the man she loved--and paid for it with her life."

"The process doesn't sound exactly encouraging," she retorted with aflash of dry humour. "But how do you know I'm not--like that?"

"How do I know? Because, if you knew anything at all about love, youcouldn't pay with it as you do. Even the love you've no use for is thebiggest thing the poor devil who loves you has to offer you; you've noright to play battledore and shuttlecock with it."

He spoke lightly, but Magda could hear the stern accusation thatunderlay the words. She rose from the table abruptly.

"I think," she said, "I think I'm afraid of love."

As she spoke, she made a movement as though to quit the supper-room,but, either by accident or design, Michael barred her way.

Something in the deep tones of his voice sent a thrill ofconsciousness through her. She felt her breath come and go unevenlyand, afraid to trust herself to speak, she moved forward withoutresponse in the direction of the door. A moment later they were drawninto the stream of people wending their way by twos and threes towardsthe ballroom.

As they entered, Antoine Davilof broke away from a little group of menwith whom he had been conversing and came to Magda's side.

"The next dance is just beginning," he said. "Are you engaged? Or mayI have it?"

"No, I'm not engaged," she answered.

She spoke flurriedly. She was dreading this dance with Antoine. Shefelt as though the evening had drained her of her strength and lefther unequal to a battle of wills should Antoine prove to be in one ofhis hotheaded moods.

She glanced round her with a hint of desperation in her eyes. If onlyMichael had asked her to dance with him instead! But he had bowed andleft her as soon as the musician joined them, so that there was noescape to be hoped for that way.

Davilof was watching her curiously.

"I believe," he said, "that you're afraid to dance with me!"

On an impulse she answered him with perfect candour.

"I believe I am."

"Then why did you promise? You did promise, you know."

"I know. I promised. I promised because Coppertop had croup and theyhad telephoned down for his mother to go to him. And you wouldn'taccompany me unless I gave you this dance. So I promised it."

Davilof's eyes held a curiously concentrated expression.

"And you did this so that Mrs. Grey could go to her little boy--tonurse him?"

Magda inclined her head.

"Yes," she said simply.

"But you hated asking me--/loathed/ it!"

"Yes," she said again.

He was silent for a moment. Then he drew back from her. "That waskind. Extraordinarily kind," he commented slowly. His expression wasone of frank amazement. "I did not believe you could be so kind--sowomanly."

"Womanly?" she queried, puzzled.

"Yes. For is not a woman--a good woman--always ready to sacrificeherself for those she loves?"

Magda almost jumped. It was as though she were listening to an echo ofQuarrington's own words.

"And you sacrificed yourself," continued Davilof. "Sacrificed yourpride--crushed it down for the sake of Mrs. Grey and little Coppertop.Mademoiselle"--he bowed gravely--"I kiss your hands. And see, I too, Ican be generous. I release you from your promise. I do not claim thatdance."

If any single thing could have astonished Magda more than another, itwas that Davilof should voluntarily, in the circumstances, renouncethe dance she had promised him. It argued a fineness of perception anda generosity for which she would never have given him credit. She felta little warm rush of gratitude towards him.

"No, no!" she cried impulsively, "you shan't give up your dance."Then, as he still hesitated: "I should /like/ to dance with you--really I should, Antoine. You've been so--so /decent/."

Davilof's face lit up. He looked radiant--like a child that has beenpatted on the back and told it is good.

"No wonder we are all in love with you!" he exclaimed in low, vehementtones; adding quickly, as he detected a flicker of apprehension inMagda's eyes: "But you need not fear to dance with me. I will be asyour brother--I will go on being 'decent.'"

And he was. He danced as perfectly as any of his music-lovingnationality can dance, but there was a restraint, a punctiliousdeference about him that, even while it amazed, availed to reassureMagda and restore her shaken confidence in the man.

She did not realise or suspect that just those two simple actions ofhers--the good turn she had done Gillian at some considerable cost toherself in the matter of personal pride, and her quick recognition ofthe musician's sense of fair play in renouncing his dance with herwhen he knew the circumstances which had impelled her to promise it--these two things had sufficed to turn Davilof's heady, emotionaldevotion into something more enduring and perhaps more dangerous, anabiding, deeply rooted love and passion for her which was strongerthan the man himself.

He left the house immediately after the conclusion of his dance withher, and Magda was speedily surrounded by a crowd of would-bepartners. But she felt disinclined to dance again, and, always charyof her favours in this respect, she remained watching the dancing inpreference to taking any part in it, exchanging small-talk with themen who, finding she could not be induced to reconsider her decision,clustered round her chair like bees round a honey-pot.

It was towards the end of the evening that Michael Quarrington finallyjoined the group. Magda's eyes rested on him with a mixture ofannoyance and approval--annoyance because she had expected him to askher for a dance quite early in the course of the programme and he hadfailed to do so, and approval because he was of that clean-cut, fair-haired type of man who invariably contrives to look particularly well-groomed and thoroughbred in evening kit.

She had no intention of permitting him to request a dance at this latehour, however, and rose from her seat as he approached.

He offered his arm and Magda, dismissing her little court ofdisgruntled admirers with a small gracious nod, laid her slim hand onhis sleeve. As they moved away together the orchestra broke into theswinging seductive rhythm of a waltz.

Quarrington paused abruptly.

"Don't go yet!" he said. "Dance this with me."

His voice sounded strained and uneven. It was as though the words weredragged from him without his own volition.

She was almost glad when the waltz came to an end. They had danced itin utter silence--a tense, packed silence, vibrant with significanceshalf-hidden, half-understood, and she found herself quivering with astrange uncertainty and nervousness as she and Quarrington togethermade their way into the dim-lit quiet of the winter-garden opening offthe ballroom.

Overhead the green, shining leaves of stephanotis spread a canopy,pale clusters of its white, heavy-scented bloom gleaming star-like inthe faint light of Chinese lanterns swung from the leaf-clad roof.From somewhere near at hand came the silvery, showering plash of afountain playing--a delicate and aerial little sound against therobust harmonies of the band, like the notes of a harp.

It seemed to Magda as though she and Michael had left the world behindthem and were quite alone, enfolded in the sweet-scented, tendersilence of some Garden of Eden.

They stood together without speaking. In every tingling nerve of hershe was acutely conscious of his proximity and of some rapidly risingtide of emotion mounting within him. She knew the barrier againstwhich it beat and a little cry escaped her, forced from her by someimpulse that was stronger than herself.

"Oh, Saint Michel! Can't you--can't you believe in me?"

He swung round at the sound of her voice and the next moment she wascrushed against his breast, his mouth on hers, his kisses burningtheir way to her very heart. . . .

Then voices, quick, light footsteps--someone else had discovered theEden of the winter-garden, and Michael released her abruptly.

Behind the chimneystacks the grey fingers of dawn were creeping up inthe sky as Magda drove home. In the wan light her face lookedunusually pale, and beneath the soft lace at her breast her heartthrobbed unevenly.

Five minutes ago Michael had held her in his arms and she had feltherself stirred to a sudden passionate surrender and response thatfrightened her.

Was this love--the love against which Diane had warned her? It had allhappened so suddenly--that last, unpremeditated dance, those tense,vibrant moments in the winter-garden, then the jarring interruption ofother couples seeking its fragrant coolness. And she and Michaelsuddenly apart.

Afterwards, only the barest conventionalities had passed between them.Nothing else had seemed possible. Their solitude had been ruthlesslydestroyed; the outside world had thrust itself upon them withoutwarning, jerking them back to the self-consciousness of suddenlyarrested emotion.

"I must be going." The stilted, banal little phrase had fallenawkwardly from Magda's lips, and Quarrington had assented withoutcomment.

She felt confused and bewildered. What had he meant? Had he meantanything at all? Was it possible that he believed in her now--trustedher? It had been in answer to that low, imploring cry of hers--"/SaintMichel, can't you believe in me?/"--that he had taken her in his arms.

Looking out through the mist-blurred window at the pale streamers ofdawnlight penciling the sky, Magda's eyes grew wistful--wonderinglyquestioning the future. Was she, too, only waiting for the revelationof dawn--the dawn of that mysterious thing called love which cantransmute this everyday old world of ours into heaven or hell?

Gillian was at the door to welcome her when at length the car pulledup at Friars' Holm. She looked rather white and there were purpleshadows under her eyes, but her lips smiled happily.

And quite suddenly Gillian, who had faced Death and fought him with adogged courage and determination that had won the grave-eyed doctor'srare approval, broke down and burst into tears.

Magda petted and soothed her, until at last her sobs ceased and shesmiled through her tears.

"I /am/ a fool!" she said, dabbing at her eyes with a moist, screwed-up ball of something that had once been a cambric handkerchief. "ButI've quite recovered now--really. Come and tell me about everything.Did Davilof play for you all right? And did you enjoy the danceafterwards? And, oh, I forgot! There's a letter for you on themantelpiece. It was delivered by hand while we were both at LadyArabella's."

Mechanically, as she responded to Gillian's rapid fire of questions,Magda picked up the square envelope propped against the clock and slitopen the flap. It was probably only some note of urgent invitation--she received dozens of them. An instant later a half-stifled cry brokefrom her. Gillian turned swiftly.

"What is it?" she asked, a note of apprehension sharpening her voice.

Magda stared at her dumbly. Then she held out the letter.

"Read it," she said flatly. "It's from Kit Raynham's mother."

Gillian's eyes flew along the two brief lines of writing:

"Kit has disappeared. Do you know where he is?-- ALICIA RAYNHAM."

CHAPTER VIII

THE FIRST REAPING

At breakfast, some hours later, Magda was in a curiously petulant anduncertain mood. To some extent her fractiousness was due to naturalreaction after the emotional excitement of the previous evening.Granted the discovery of the Garden of Eden, and add to this thealmost immediate intrusion of outsiders therein--for everybody else isan "outsider" to the pair in possession--and any woman might beforgiven for suffering from slightly frayed nerves the following day.And in Magda's case she had been already rather keyed up by findingthe preceding few days punctuated by unwelcome and unaccustomedhappenings.

They all dated from the day of the accident which had befallen her inthe fog. It almost seemed as though that grey curtain of fog had beena symbol of the shadow which was beginning to dog her footsteps--theshadow which stern moralists designate "unpleasant consequences."

First there had been Michael Quarrington's plain and candid utteranceof his opinion of her. Then had followed Davilof's headlong wooing andhis refusal, when thwarted, to play for her again. He, too, had notprecisely glossed things over in that tirade of accusation andreproach which he had levelled at her!

And now, just when it seemed as though she had put these other uglyhappenings behind her, Kit Raynham, who for the last six months hadbeen one of the little court of admirers which surrounded her, hadseen fit to complicate matters by vanishing without explanation; whilehis mother, in an absurd maternal flurry of anxiety as to what hadbecome of him, must needs write to her as though it inevitablyfollowed that she was responsible for his disappearance!

Magda was conscious of an irritated sense of injury, which Gillian'srather apprehensive little comments on the absence of further newsconcerning young Raynham scarcely tended to allay.

"Oh, don't be tiresome, Gillian!" she exclaimed. "The boy's all right.I expect he's been having a joy-day--which has prolonged itself abit."

"It seems he hasn't been seen or heard of since the day beforeyesterday," responded Gillian gravely. "They're afraid he may--mayhave committed suicide"--she brought out the word with a rush."They've been dragging the lake at his home."

Magda flared.

"Where did you hear all this--this nonsense? You said nothing about itlast night."

"Lady Raynham told me. She rang up half an hour ago--before you weredown--to ask if by any chance we had had any news of him," repliedGillian gently.

Magda pushed away her plate and, leaving her breakfast unfinished,moved restlessly across to the window.

"There's nothing about it in this morning's paper, is there?" sheasked. Her tone sounded apprehensive.

Gillian's eyes grew suddenly compassionate.

"Yes. There is--something," she returned, laying her hand quickly overthe newspaper as though to withhold it.

The other made no response. Instead, she deliberately searched thecolumns of the paper until she found a paragraph headed: Disappearanceof the Honourable Kit Raynham.

No exception could reasonably be taken to the paragraph in question.It gave a brief resume of Kit Raynham's short life up to date,referred to the distinguished career which had been predicted for him,and, in mentioning that he was one of the set of brilliant young folksof whom Magda Wielitzska, the well-known dancer, was the acknowledgedleader, it conveyed a very slightly veiled hint that he, inparticular, was accounted one of her most devoted satellites. Thesting of the paragraph lay in its tail:

"It will be tragic indeed if it should eventually transpire that a young life so full of exceptional promise has foundered in seas that only a seasoned swimmer should essay."

It was easy enough for Magda to read between the lines. If anythinghad happened to Kit Raynham--if it were ultimately found that he hadtaken his own life--society at large was prepared to censure her asmore or less responsible for the catastrophe!

Side by side with this paragraph was another--a panegyric on theperfection of Wielitzska's dancing as a whole, and dwellingparticularly upon her brilliant performance in /The Swan-Maiden/.

To Magda, the juxtaposition of the two paragraphs was almostunendurable. That this supreme success should be marred andovershadowed by a possible tragedy! She flung the newspaper to theground.

"I think--I think the world's going mad!" she exclaimed in a chokedvoice.

Gillian looked across at her. Intuitively she apprehended the mentalconflict through which her friend was passing--the nervousapprehension and resentment of the artiste that any extraneoushappening should infringe upon her success contending with the genuineregret she would feel if some untoward accident had really befallenKit Raynham. And behind both these that strange, aloof detachmentwhich seemed part of the very fibre of her nature, and which Gillianknew would render it almost impossible for her to admit or evenrealise that she was in any way responsible for Kit Raynham's fate--whatever it might be.

Of what had taken place in the winter-garden at Lady Arabella'sGillian was, of course, in ignorance, and she had therefore no ideathat the intrusion of Kit Raynham's affairs at this particularjuncture was doubly unwelcome. But she could easily see that Magda wasshaken out of her customary sang-froid.

"Don't worry, Magda." The words sprang consolingly to her lips, butbefore she could give them utterance Melrose opened the door andannounced that Lady Raynham was in the library. Would MademoiselleWielitzska see her?

The old man's face wore a look of concern. They had heard all aboutthe disappearance of Lady Raynham's son in the servants' hall--theevening papers had had it. Moreover, it always seems as though thereexists a species of wireless telepathy by which the domestic staff ofany household, great or small, speedily becomes acquainted witheverything good, bad, or indifferent--and particularly bad!--whichaffects the folks "above-stairs."

A brief uncomfortable pause succeeded Melrose's announcement; thenMagda walked quietly out of the room into the library.

Lady Raynham rose from a low chair near the fire. She was a little,insignificant woman, rather unfashionably attired, with neat grey hairand an entirely undistinguished face, but as she stood there,motionless, waiting for Magda to come up to her, she was quiteunconsciously impressive--transformed by that tragic dignity withwhich great sorrow invests even the most commonplace of people.

Her thin, middle-aged features looked drawn and puckered by long hoursof strain. Her eyes were red-rimmed with sleeplessness. They searchedMagda's face accusingly before she spoke.

"What have you done to my son?"

"Where is he?" Magda's answering question came in almost breathlesshaste.

"You don't know!"

Lady Raynham sat down suddenly. Her legs were trembling beneath her--had been trembling uncontrollably even as she nerved herself to standand confront the woman at whose door she laid the ruin of her son. Butnow the spurt of nervous energy was exhausted, and she sank back intoher chair, thankful for its support.

"I don't know where he is," she said tonelessly. "I don't even knowwhether he is alive or dead."

She fumbled in the wrist-bag she carried, and withdrawing a crumpledsheet of notepaper held it out. Magda took it from her mechanically,recognising, with a queer tightening of the muscles of her throat, theboyish handwriting which sprawled across it.

"You want me to read this?" she asked.

"You've /got/ to read it," replied the other harshly. "It is writtento you. I found it--after he'd gone."

Her gaze fastened on Magda's face and clung there unwaveringly whileshe read the letter.

It was a wild, incoherent outpouring--the headlong confession of aboy's half-crazed infatuation for a beautiful woman. A pathetic enoughdocument in its confused medley of passionate demand and boyishhumbleness. The tragic significance of it was summed up in a few linesat the end--lines which seemed to burn themselves into Magda's brain:

"I suppose it was cheek my hoping you could ever care, but you were so sweet to me you made me think you did. I know now that you don't--that you never really cared a brass farthing, and I'm going right away. The same world can't hold us both any longer. So I'm going out of it."

Magda looked up from the scrawled page and met the gaze of the sad,merciless eyes that were fixed on her.

"Couldn't you have left him alone?" Lady Raynham spoke in a low,difficult voice. "You have men enough to pay you compliments and runyour errands. I'd only Kit. Couldn't you have let me keep him? Whatdid you want with my boy's love. You'd nothing to give him in return?"

"I had!" protested Magda indignantly. "You're wrong. I was very fondof Kit. I gave him my friendship."

Her indignation was perfectly sincere. To her, it seemed that LadyRaynham was taking up a most unwarrantable attitude.

"Friendship?" repeated the latter with bitter scorn. "Friendship? ThenGod help the boys to whom you give it! Before Kit ever met you he wasthe best and dearest son a woman could have had. He was keen on hiswork--wild to get on. And he was so gifted it looked as if there werenothing in his profession that he might not do. . . . Then you came!You turned his head, filled his thoughts to the exclusion of all else--work, duty, everything that matters to a lad of two-and-twenty. Youspoilt his chances--spoilt his whole life. And now I've lost him. Idon't know where he is--whether he is dead or alive." She paused. "Ithink he's dead," she said dully.

"I'm sorry if--"

"Sorry!" Lady Raynham interrupted hysterically. Her composure wasgiving way under the strain of the interview. "Sorry if my son hastaken his own life--"

Lady Raynham rose and walked towards the door as though she had saidall she came to say. Magda sprang to her feet.

"I won't--I won't be blamed like this!" she exclaimed rebelliously."It's unfair! Can I help it if your son chose to fall in love with me?You--you might as well hold me responsible because he is tall orshort--or good or bad!"

The other stopped suddenly on her way to the door as though arrestedby that last defiant phrase.

"I do," she said sternly. "It's women like you who are responsiblewhether men are good--or bad."

In silence Magda watched the small, unassuming figure disappearthrough the doorway. She felt powerless to frame a reply, nor had LadyRaynham waited for one. If her boy were indeed dead--dead by his ownhand--she had at least cleared his memory, laid the burden of the mad,rash act he had committed on the shoulders that deserved to bear it.

Normally a shy, retiring kind of woman, loathing anything in thenature of a scene, the tragedy which had befallen her son had inspiredAlicia Raynham with the reckless courage of a tigress defending itsyoung. And now that the strain was over and she found herself oncemore in her brougham, driving homeward with the familiar clip-clop ofthe fat old carriage-horse's hoofs in her ears, she shrank backagainst the cushions marvelling at the temerity which had swept herinto the Wielitzska's presence and endowed her with words that cutlike a two-edged sword.

Like a two-edged sword in very truth! Lady Raynham's final thrust,stabbing at her with its stern denunciation, brought back vividly toMagda Michael Quarrington's bitter speech--"I've no place for yourkind of woman."

Side by side with the recollection came a sudden dart of fear. Howwould all this stir about Kit Raynham--the impending gossip andcensure which seemed likely to be accorded her--affect him? Would hejudge her again--as he had judged her before?

She was conscious of a fresh impulse of anger against Lady Raynham.She wanted to forget the past--blot it all out of her memory--and outof the memory of the man whose contempt had hurt her more thananything in her whole life before. And now it seemed as thougheverything were combining to emphasise those very things which hadearned his scorn.

But, apart from a certain apprehension as to how the whole affairmight appear in Michael's eyes, she was characteristically unimpressedby her interview with Lady Raynham.

"I don't see," she told Gillian indignantly, "that I'm to blamebecause the boy lost his head. His mother was--stupid."

Gillian regarded her consideringly. To her, the whole pitiful tragedywas so clear. She could envisage the point of view of Kit's motheronly too well, and sympathise with it. Yet, understanding Magda betterthan most people did, she realised that the dancer was hardly asculpable as Lady Raynham thought her.

Homage and admiration were as natural to Magda as the air shebreathed, and it made very little impression on her whether a man moreor less lost his heart to her or not. Moreover, as Gillian recognisedit was almost inevitable that this should be the case. The influencesby which Magda had been surrounded during the first ten plastic yearsof childhood had all tended to imbue her with the idea that men wereonly to be regarded as playthings, and that from the simple standpointof self-defence it was wiser not to take them seriously. If you did,they invariably showed a disposition to become tyrants. Gillian madeallowance for this; nevertheless she had no intention of letting Magdadown lightly.

"I believe you were created without a soul," she informed hercandidly.

Magda smiled a little.

"Do you know you're the second person to tell me that?" she said. "Theidea's not a bit original. Michael Quarrington told me the same thingin other words. Perhaps, perhaps it's true."

"Of course, it's not true!" Gillian contradicted her warmly. "I onlysaid it because I was so out of patience with you."

"I don't think you are," retorted Gillian. "But it's your 'usual'that's so disastrous. You go sailing through life like a beautifulcold star--perfectly impassive and heartless."

"I'm not heartless. I love you--and Marraine. You surely don't blameme because I don't 'fall in love'? . . . I don't /want/ to fall inlove," she added with sudden vehemence.

"I wish to goodness you would!" exclaimed Gillian impatiently. "Ifonly you cared enough about anybody to do something really outrageous--run off with another woman's husband, even--I believe I shouldrespect you more than I do now."

Magda laughed.

"Gillyflower, I'm afraid you've no morals. And you here in thecapacity of watchdog and duenna, too!"

"It's all very well to make a joke of everything. But I know--I'm surethis business about Kit Raynham is going to be more serious than youthink. It's bound to affect you."

Magda stared at her blankly.

"What nonsense! Affect me--why should it? How can it?"

"How can it?"--with bitterness. "Everyone will talk--more than usual!You can't smash up people's only sons--not lovable, popular boys likeKit--without there being a fuss. You--you should have left a kid likethat alone."

And she went out of the room, banging the door behind her like a bigfull-stop.

Gillian's prophecy proved only too accurate. People did talk. KitRaynham had been a general favourite in society, and hisdisappearance, taken in conjunction with the well-known fact of hisinfatuation for Magda, created a sensation.

Even when the theory of suicide was finally disproved by his mother'sreceiving a letter from Australia, whither it appeared, the boy hadbetaken himself and his disappointment, people seemed at firstdisinclined to overlook Magda's share in the matter. For a time evenher immense prestige as a dancer suffered some eclipse, but this, witha performer of her supreme artistry, was bound to be only a passingphase.

The world will always condone where it wants to be amused. And--nowthat the gloom of young Raynham's supposed suicide was lifted from theaffair--there was a definite aroma of romance about it which was notwithout its appeal to the younger generation.

So that gradually the pendulum swung back and Magda's audiences wereonce again as big and enthusiastic as ever. Perhaps even moreenthusiastic, since the existence of a romantic and dramaticattachment sheds a certain glamour about any well-known artiste.

All of which affected Magda herself comparatively little--though itirritated her that her actions should be criticised. What did affecther, however, absorbing her thoughts to the exclusion of all othermatters, was that since the night of Lady Arabella's reception she hadreceived neither word nor sign from Michael Quarrington.

She could not understand it. Had he been a different type of man shemight have credited him with having yielded to a sudden impulse,kissing her as some men will kiss women--lightly and without giving orasking more than the moment's caress.

But Quarrington was essentially not the man to be carried away by apassing fancy. That he had cared for her against his will, against hisbetter judgment, Magda could not but realise. /But he had cared!/ Shewas sure of it. And he was the only man for whom her own pulses hadever beaten one whit the faster.

His touch, the sound of his voice, the swift, hawk-like glance ofthose grey eyes of his, had power to wake in her a vague tumult ofemotion at once sweet and frightening; and in that brief moment in the"Garden of Eden," when he had held her in his arms, she had beentremulously ready to yield--to surrender to the love which claimedher.

But the days had multiplied to weeks and still the silence which hadfollowed remained unbroken. As far as Magda was concerned, Michaelseemed to have walked straight out of her life, and she was too proud--and too much hurt--to inquire amongst her friends for news of him.It was her godmother who finally tersely enlightened her as to hiswhereabouts.

Characteristically, Lady Arabella had withheld her judgment regardingthe Kit Raynham affair until it was found that he had betaken himselfoff to Australia. But when the whole of the facts were evident, sheallowed nothing--neither the romantic dreams of the episode nor herown warm affection for her god-daughter--to obscure her clear-sightedvision.

Magda twisted her slim shoulders irritably when taken to task.

"I think I'm tired of being blamed for Kit Raynham's idiocy," shesaid, a note of resentment in her voice. "No one seems to consider myside of the question! I was merely nice to him in an ordinary sort ofway, and there wasn't the least need for him to have chucked upeverything and rushed off to the other side of the world like that./I/ couldn't help it!"

Lady Arabella made a gesture of despair.

"I don't believe you could," she acknowledged helplessly. "I'm reallybeginning to have a sneaking sympathy with poor Hugh for shelving theresponsibility of having brought you into the world. But at least youmight refrain from baby-snatching!" she added wrathfully.

"That has nothing whatever to do with it," retorted Lady Arabellaincisively. "Kit is a babe in arms, while you--you're as old as Eve."She paused. "Anyway, you've broken his heart and driven him to theends of the earth."

"Where he'll probably paste together the pieces and offer the repairedarticle to someone else."

Lady Arabella looked up sharply. Cynicism was usually far enough awayfrom Magda. She was too full of the joy of life and of the genuinedelight an artist finds in his art to have place for it. Egoist shemight be, with the unthinking egotism of youth, irresponsible in hergay acceptance of the love and admiration showered on her, but therewas nothing bitter or sour in her composition. Lady Arabella, seekingan explanation for the unwonted, cast her mind back on the events ofthe last few weeks--and smiled to herself.

Magda's head was turned away, but the sudden scarlet flush that flewup into her face surged over even the white nape of her neck.

"And he loves you," went on Lady Arabella, her voice softeningincredibly. "It's only a man here or there who really /loves/ a woman,my dear. Most of them whip up a hotch-potch of quite commonplacefeelings with a dash of passion and call it love, while all theyactually want is a good housekeeper and presentable hostess andsomeone to carry on the name."

No answer came from Magda, unless a stifled murmur could be regardedas such, and after a few minutes Lady Arabella spoke again, irritably.

"Why couldn't you have left Kit alone?"

Magda raised her head.

"What has that to do with it?"

"Everything"--succinctly. "I told you I meddled. Michael Quarringtoncame to see me before he went away--and I know precisely why he leftEngland. I asked him to go and see you before he sailed."

"What did he say?" The words were almost inaudible.

Lady Arabella hesitated. Then she quoted quickly: "'There is no need.She will understand.'"

To Magda the brief sentence held all the finality of the bolting andbarring of a door. So Quarrington, like everyone else, had heard thestory of Kit Raynham! And he had judged and sentenced her.

That night in the winter-garden he had been on the verge of trustingher, ready to believe in her, and she had vowed to herself that shewould prove worthy of his trust. She had meant never to fall short ofall that Michael demanded in the woman he loved. And now, before shehad had a chance to justify his hardly-won belief, the past had risenup to destroy her, surging over her like a great tidal wave andsweeping away the whole fabric of the happiness she had visioned.

She had not wholly realised before that she loved. But she knew now.As the empty weeks dragged along she learned what it meant to long forthe beloved one's presence--the sound and touch of voice or hand--withan aching, unassuagable longing that seems to fuse body and soul intoa single entity of pain.

Outwardly she appeared unchanged. Her pride was indomitable, andexactly how much Michael's going had meant to her not even Gilliansuspected--though the latter was too sensitive and sympathetic not torealise that Magda had passed through some experience which hadtouched her keenly. Ignorant of the incidents that had occurred on thenight of Lady Arabella's party, she was disposed to assign thesoreness of spirit she discerned in her friend to the generalhappenings which had followed from the Raynham episode. And amongstthese she gave a certain definite place to the abrupt withdrawal ofQuarrington's friendship, and resented it. She felt curiouslydisappointed in the man. With such fine perceptive faculty as hepossessed she would have expected him to be more tolerant--moremerciful in his judgment.

Once she had tentatively approached the subject, but Magda had clearlyindicated that she had no intention of discussing it.

Not even to Gillian, whom she had gradually come to look upon as herclosest friend, could Magda unveil the wound to her pride. No one, noone in the whole world, should know that she had been ready to giveher love--and that the offering had been silently, but none the lessdecisively, rejected.

Diane's warning now found its echo in her own heart: "Never give yourheart to any man. If you do he will only break it for you--break itinto little pieces like the glass scent-bottle which you droppedyesterday."

The season was drawing to its close. London lay sweltering under aheat-wave which had robbed the trees in the Park of their fresh Junegreenness and converted the progress of foot-passengers along itssultry pavements into something which called to mind the mediaevalordeal of walking over hot ploughshares.

Even the garden at Friars' Holm, usually a coolly green oasis in themidst of the surrounding streets, seemed as airless as any back courtor alley, and Coppertop, who had been romping ever more and moreflaggingly with a fox-terrier puppy he had recently acquired, finallygave up the effort and flung himself down, red-faced and panting, onthe lawn where his mother and Magda were sitting.

"Isn't it nearly time for us to go to the seaside, mummie?" heinquired plaintively.

Magda smiled down at the small wistful face.

"How would you like to go to the country instead, Topkins?" she asked."To a farm where they have pigs and horses and cows, and heaps ofcream--"

"And strawberries?" interpolated Coppertop pertinently.

"Oh, of course. Or, no--they'll be over by the time we get there. Butthere'll be raspberries. That's just as good, isn't it?"

Gillian looked up, smiling a little.

"It's settled we're going 'there,' then--wherever it is?" she said.

"Do you think you'd like it, Gillyflower?" asked Magda. "It's a farmI've heard of in Devonshire, where they want to take paying-guests forthe summer."

"I'm sure I should. But will /you/?"--whimsically. She glanced at thesophisticated simplicity of Magda's white gown, at the narrow suedeshoes and filmy stockings--every detail of her dress and personbreathing the expensiveness and luxury and highly specialisedcivilisation of the city. "Somehow I can't imagine you--on a farm inthe depths of the country! I believe you'll hate it."

"I shall like it." Magda got up restlessly. "I'm sick of society andthe theatre and the eternal gossip that goes on in London. I--I wantto get away from it all!"

Gillian's thoughts turned back to the happenings of the last fewmonths. She thought she understood what lay behind Magda's suddendecision to bury herself in the country.

"Have you taken rooms at this farm?" she asked.

"Yes, I have"--shortly. Then, with one of those sudden flashes ofaffectionate insight which were part of her essential lovableness, shewent on: "Gilly, are you sure you don't mind? I ought to have askedyou first"--remorsefully. "I expect you'll be bored to death. Perhapsyou'd rather not come?"

Gillian's quiet brown eyes smiled at her reassuringly.

"'Where thou goest--'" she quoted. "Of course I want to come. I'venever been to Devonshire. And I know Coppertop will adore the pigs andcows--"

"And cream," put in Coppertop ruminatively.

"Tell me about the place," said Gillian. "How did you hear of it?"

"Through the prosaic columns of the /Daily Post/," replied Magda. "Ididn't want a place recommended by anyone I knew. That doesn't cut theconnecting line one bit. Probably the people who've recommended it toyou decide to look you up in their car, just when you think you'resafely buried, and disinter you. I don't /want/ to be disinterred. Ipropose to get right away into the country, out of reach of everybodywe know, for two months. I shan't give our address to anyone exceptMelrose, and he can forward on all letters." A small amused smilecrossed her lips. "Then we can answer them or not, exactly as we feeldisposed. It will be heavenly."

"Still I don't know where this particular paradise is which you'veselected," returned Gillian patiently.

"It's at the back of beyond--a tiny village in Devonshire calledAshencombe. I just managed to find it on the Ordnance map with amagnifying glass! The farm itself is called Stockleigh and is ownedand farmed by some people named Storran. The answer to my letter wassigned Dan Storran. Hasn't it a nice sound--Storran of Stockleigh?"

"And did you engage the rooms on those grounds, may I ask? Because theproprietor's name 'had a nice sound'?"

Magda regarded her seriously.

"Do you know, I really believe that had a lot to do with it," sheacknowledged.

Gillian went off into a little gale of laughter.

"How like you!" she exclaimed.

The train steamed fussily out of Ashencombe station, leaving Magda,Gillian, and Coppertop, together with sundry trunks and suitcases, inundisputed possession of the extremely amateurish-looking platform.Magda glanced about her with amusement.

A porter--or, to be accurate, /the/ porter, since Ashencombe boastedbut one--addressed her abruptly. From a certain inimical gleam in hiseye Magda surmised that he had overheard her criticism.

"Yes." She nodded smilingly. "Is there a trap of any kind to meet us?"

Being a man as well as a porter he melted at once under Magda'sdisarming smile, and replied with a sudden accession of amiability.

"Be you going to Stockleigh?" he asked. The soft sing-song intonationcommon to all Devon voices fell very pleasantly on ears accustomed tothe Cockney twang of London streets.

"Yes, to Storran of Stockleigh," announced Coppertop importantly.

The porter's mouth widened into an appreciative grin.

"That's right, young master, and there's the wagonette from the Crownand Bells waiting to take you there."

A few minutes later, the luggage precariously piled up on the box-seatbeside the driver, they were ambling through the leafy Devon lanes atan unhurried pace apparently dictated by the somewhat ancientquadruped between the shafts. The driver swished his whip negligentlyabove the animal's broad back, but presumably more with the idea ofkeeping off the flies than with any hope of accelerating his speed.There would be no other train to meet at Ashencombe until the downmail, due four hours later, so why hurry? No one ever appears to be ina hurry in the leisurely West Country--a refreshing characteristic ina world elsewhere so perforated by tubes and shaken by the ubiquitousmotor-bus.

Magda leaned back in the wagonette with a sigh of pleasure. Thedrowsy, sunshiny peace of the July afternoon seemed very far removedfrom the torrid rush and roar of the previous day in London.

It was almost like entering another world. Instead of the crowded,wood-paved streets, redolent of petrol, this winding ribbon of a lanewhere the brambles and tufted grass leaned down from close-set hedgesto brush the wheels of the carriage as it passed. Overhead, a restfulsky of misty blue flecked with wisps of white cloud, while eachinconsequent turn of the narrow twisting road revealed a suddenglimpse of distant purple hills, or a small friendly cottage built ofcob and crowned with yellow thatch, or high-hedged fields of standingcorn, deepening to gold and quiveringly still as the sea on a windlessafternoon.

At last the wagonette swung round an incredibly sharp turn and rumbledbetween two granite posts--long since denuded of the gate which hadonce swung between them--pulling up in front of a low, two-storiedhouse, which seemed to convey a pleasant sense of welcome, as somehouses do.

The casement windows stood wide open and through them you caughtglimpses of white curtains looped back with lavender ribbons. Roses,pink and white and red, nodded their heads to you from the walls, evenpeering out impertinently to catch the sun from beneath the eaves ofthe roof, whose thatch had mellowed to a somber brown with wind andweather. Above the doorway trails of budding honeysuckle challengedthe supremacy of more roses in their summer prime, and just within, inthe cool shadow of the porch, stood a woman's slender figure.

Gillian never forgot that first glimpse of June Storran. She lookedvery simple and girlish as she stood there, framed in the rose-coveredtrellis of the porch, waiting with a slight stir of nervousness toreceive the travellers. The sunlight, filtering between the leaves ofthe honeysuckle, dappled her ash-blond hair with hovering flecks ofgold, and a faint, shy smile curved her lips as she came forward, alittle hesitatingly, to greet them.

"I am so glad to see you," she said. "Dan--my husband had to go toExeter to-day. He was sorry he could not meet you himself at thestation."

As she and Magda stood side by side the contrast between them wascuriously marked--the one in her obviously homemade cotton frock, withher total absence of poise and her look of extreme youth hardlyseeming the married woman that she was, the other gowned with thesimplicity of line and detailed finish achieved only by a greatdressmaker, her quiet assurance and distinctive little air of /savoirvivre/ setting her worlds apart from Dan Storran's young wife.

"Will you come in? The man will see to your luggage."

June was speaking again, still shyly but with her shyness tempered bya sensitive instinct of hospitality. She led the way into the houseand they followed her through a big, low-raftered living-room and up aflight of slippery oak stairs.

"These are your rooms," said June, pausing at last at the end of arambling passage-way. "I hope"--she flushed a little anxiously--"I dohope you will like them. I've made them as nice as I could. But, ofcourse"--she glanced at Magda deprecatingly--"you will find them verydifferent from London rooms."

Magda flashed her a charming smile.

"I'm sure we shall love them," she answered, glancing about her withgenuine appreciation.

The rooms were very simply furnished, but sweet and fresh with chintzand flowers, and the whitewashed ceilings, sloping at odd, unexpectedangles, gave them a quaint attractiveness. The somewhat coarse butspotless bed-linen exhaled a faint fragrance of lavender.

"You ought to charge extra for the view alone," observed Gillian,going to one of the open lattice windows and looking across the riseand fall of hill and valley to where the distant slopes of Dartmoor,its craggy tors veiled in a grey-blue haze, rimmed the horizon.

"I hope you didn't think the terms too high?" said June. "You see, I--we never had paying-guests before, and I really didn't know what wouldbe considered fair. I do hope you'll be happy and comfortable here,"she added timidly.

There was something very appealing in her ingenuousness and wistfuldesire to please, and Magda reassured her quickly.

"I haven't any doubt about it," she said, smiling. "This is such acharming house"--glancing about her--"so dear and old-fashioned. Ithink it's very good of you to let us share your home for a littlewhile. It will be a lovely holiday for us."

June Storran had no possibility of knowing that this dark, slenderwoman to whom she had let her rooms was the famous dancer, MagdaWielitzska, since the rooms had been engaged in the name of MissVallincourt, but she responded to Magda's unfailing charm as a flowerto the sun.

"It will be lovely for us, too," she replied. "Do you know, we were sofrightened about putting in that advertisement you answered! Dan wasterribly against it." A troubled little frown knitted her level brows."But we've had such bad luck on the farm since we were married--therain spoilt all our crops last year and we lost several valuableanimals--so I thought it would help a bit if we took paying-gueststhis summer. But Dan didn't really approve."

"I can quite understand," said Gillian. "Naturally he wanted to keephis home to himself--an Englishman's home is his castle, you know! AndI expect"--smilingly--"you haven't been married very long."

Mrs. Storran flushed rosily. She was evidently a sensitive littleperson, and the blood came and went quickly under her clear skin atthe least provocation.

"Not very long," she acknowledged. "But we've been very happy--inspite of our bad luck on the farm! After all, that's what matters,isn't it?"

"It's the only thing that really matters at all," said Gillian. Hereyes had grown suddenly soft with some tender recollection of thepast. "But you mustn't let us give you a lot of trouble while we'rehere. You don't look over-strong." Her glance rested kindly on herhostess's young face. In spite of its dewy blue eyes and clear skinwith the tinge of wild-rose pink in the cheeks, it conveyed a certainimpression of fragility. She looked almost as though a vigorous puffof wind might blow her away.

"Oh, I'm quite well. Of course I found looking after a farmhouserather heavy work--just at first. I hadn't been used to it, and wecan't afford to keep a servant. You see, I married Dan against thewishes of my people, so of course we couldn't accept any help fromthem, though they have offered it."

"I don't see why not," objected Magda. "They can't feel very badlyabout it if they are willing to help you."

"Oh, no--they would, gladly. But Dan would hate it in thecircumstances. You can understand that, can't you?"--appealingly. "Hewants to justify himself--to prove that he can keep his own wife. He'dbe too proud to let me take anything from them."

"Storran of Stockleigh appears to be considerably less attractive thanhis name," summed up Gillian, as, half an hour later, she and Magdaand Coppertop were seated round a rustic wooden table in the gardenpartaking of a typical Devonshire tea with its concomitants of jam andclotted cream.

"Apparently," she continued, "he has married 'above him.' Little Mrs.Storran obviously comes of good stock, while I expect he himself isjust an ordinary sort of farmer and doesn't half appreciate her.Anyway, he doesn't seem to consider her much."

Magda made no answer. Characteristically her interest in June Storranhad evaporated, pushed aside by something of more personal concern.

"This is the most restful, peaceful spot I've ever struck," she said,leaning back with a sigh of pleasure. "Isn't it lovely, Gilly? There'ssomething homelike and friendly about the whole landscape--a sort of/intimate/ feeling. I feel as if I'd known it all for years--andshould like to know it for years more! Don't they say Devon folkalways want to come home to die? I'm not surprised."

"Yes, it's very beautiful," agreed Gillian, her gaze restingcontentedly on the gracious curves of green and golden fields, brokenhere and there by stretches of ploughed land glowing warmly redbetween the ripening corn and short-cropped pasture.

"I believe I could be quite good here, Gillyflower," pursued Magdareflectively. "Just live happily from one day to the next, breathingthis glorious air, and eating plain, simple food, and feeding thoseadorable fluffy yellow balls Mrs. Storran calls chickens, and churningbutter and--"

Gillian's ringing, whole-hearted laughter checked this enthusiasticepitome of the simple life.

"Never, Magda!" she asserted, shaking her head. "I'm quite expectingyou to get bored in about a week and to rush me off to Deauville orsomewhere of that ilk. And as to being 'good'--why, it isn't in you!"

"I'm not so sure." Magda rose and together they strolled over thegrass towards the house, Coppertop skirmishing happily behind them. "Ireally think I might be good here--if only for the sole reason thatthere's no temptation to be anything else"--drily.

As she spoke a gate clicked close at hand. Followed the sound ofquick, striding steps, and the next moment a man's figure rounded thetall yew hedge which skirted the foot of the garden and came towardsthem.

He was a big giant of a man--at least six foot two in his socks, andproportionately broad and muscular in build. There was something freeand bold in his swinging gait that seemed to challenge the wholeworld. It suggested an almost fierce independence of spirit that wouldgive or take as it chose, but would never brook dictation from any man--or woman either.

Instinctively Magda and Gillian paused, and Magda held out a slimhand, smiling, as he overtook them.

"I'm sure you must be Mr. Storran," she said.

He halted abruptly and snatched off his cap, revealing a crop ofcrinkly dark-brown hair thatching a lean sunburnt face, out of whichgleamed a pair of eyes as vividly blue as periwinkles.

"Yes, I'm Dan Storran," he said simply. "Is it Miss Vallincourt?"

Magda nodded and proceeded to introduce Gillian. But Storran's glanceonly rested cursorily on Gillian's soft, pretty face, returning atonce to Magda's as though drawn thither by a magnet.

Gillian was sitting alone in the yew-hedged garden, her slim fingersbusy repairing the holes which appeared with unfailing regularity inthe heels of Coppertop's stockings. From the moment he had come toStockleigh the number and size of the said holes had increasedappreciably, for, although five weeks had elapsed since the day ofarrival, Coppertop was still revelling whole-heartedly in theincredible daily delights which, from the viewpoint of six years old,attach to a farm.

Day after day found him trotting contentedly in the wake of thestockman, one Ned Honeycott, whom he had adopted as guide,philosopher, and friend, and whom he regarded as a veritable fount ofknowledge and the provider of unlimited adventure and entertainment.

It was Honeycott who lifted Coppertop on to the broad back of thesteadiest cart-horse; who had taught him how to feed calves by dippinghis chubby little hand into a pail of milk and then letting them suckthe milk from off his fingers; who beneficently contrived that hardlya load of hay was driven to the great rick without Coppertop's smallperson perched proudly aloft thereon, his slim legs dangling and hisshrill voice joining with that of the carter in an encouraging "Come-up, Blossom," to the bay mare as she plodded forward between theshafts.

Gillian experienced no anxiety with regard to Coppertop's safety whilehe was in Ned Honeycott's charge, but she missed the childishcompanionship, the more so as she found herself frequently alone thesedays. June Storran was naturally occupied about her house and dairy,while Magda, under Dan Storran's tutelage, appeared smitten with anextraordinary interest in farm management.

It seemed to Gillian that Magda and Dan were in each other's companythe greater part of the time. Every day Dan had some suggestion orother to make for Miss Vallincourt's amusement. Either it was: "Wouldyou care to see the hay-loader at work?" Or: "I've just bought acouple of pedigree Devon cows I'd like to show you, Miss Vallincourt."Or, as yesterday: "There's a pony fair to be held to-morrow atPennaway Bridge. Would you care to drive in it?" And to each and allof Storran's suggestions Magda had yielded a ready assent.

So this morning had seen the two of them setting out for Pennaway inDan's high dog-cart, while Gillian and June stood together in therose-covered porch and watched them depart.

"Wouldn't you like to have gone?" Gillian asked on a sudden impulse.

She regretted the question the instant it had passed her lips, for inthe wide-apart blue eyes June turned upon her there was something ofthe mute, puzzled misery of a dog that has received an unexpectedblow.

"I couldn't spare the time," she answered hastily. "You see"--thesensitive colour as usual coming and going quickly in her face--"MissVallincourt is on a holiday."

She turned and went quickly into the house, leaving Gillian consciousof a sudden uneasiness--that queer "trouble ahead" feeling whichdescends upon us sometimes, without warning and without our being ableto assign any very definite cause for it.

She was thinking over the little incident now, as she sat sewing inthe evening light, and meditating whether she should give Magda a hintthat it might be kinder of her not to monopolise so much of Dan'ssociety. And then the crisp sound of a horse trotting on the hard, dryroad came to her ears, and almost immediately the high dog-cart swungbetween the granite gateposts and clattered into the yard.

Dan tossed the reins on to the horse's neck and, springing to theground, came round to help Magda down from the cart.

"It's rather a steep step. Let me lift you down," he said.

"Very well."

Magda stood up in the trap and looked down at him with smiling eyes,unconsciously delighting in his sheer physical good looks. He was amagnificent specimen of manhood, and the good yeoman blood in him,which had come down through the generations of the same sturdy stock,proclaimed itself in his fine physique and splendid virility.

A moment later he had swung her down as easily as though she were achild, and she was standing beside him.

She laughed up at him.

"Oh, 'girt Jan Ridd'!" she exclaimed softly.

He laughed back, well pleased. (Was there ever a man who failed to beridiculously flattered by a feminine tribute to his physicalstrength?) Nor did his hands release her quite at once.

"You're as light as a feather! I could carry you all day and--"

"Not know it!" concluded Magda gaily.

His hands fell away from her slim body abruptly.

"Oh, I should know it right enough!" he said jerkily.

His eyes kindled, and Magda, conscious of something suddenlydisturbing and electric in the atmosphere, turned quickly and, leavingStorran to unharness the horse, made her way to where she espiedGillian sitting.

The latter looked up from her sewing.

"So you've got back? Did you have a good time?"

"Yes. It was quite amusing. There were heaps and heaps of ponies--someof them wild, unbroken colts which had been brought straight off theMoor. They were rearing and plunging all over the place. I loved them!By the way, I'm gong to learn riding, Gillyflower. Mr. Storran hasoffered to teach me. He says he has a nice quiet mare I could starton."

A small frown puckered Gillian's brows.

"Do you think Mrs. Storran will like it?"

Magda started.

"Why on earth shouldn't she?"

"Well,"--Gillian spoke with a vague discomfort. "He's her husband!"

"I don't see what that has to do with it," replied Magda. "We'restaying here and, of course, the Storrans want to make it as nice asthey can for us. Anyway, I'm going to take such goods as the godsprovide."

She got up abruptly and went in the direction of the house, leavingGillian to digest as best she might the hint that her interference wasnot likely to be either welcomed or effective.

Left to herself, Gillian sighed unhappily. Almost she wished they hadnever come to Stockleigh, only that it was pure joy to her to seeCoppertop's rather thin little cheeks filling out and growing sunburntand rosy. He had not picked up strength very readily after his attackof croup, and subsequently the intense heat in London had tried him agood deal.

But she was gradually becoming apprehensive that disturbingconsequences might accrue from Magda's stay at Stockleigh Farm. Awoman of her elusive charm, equipped with all the subtle lore that herenvironment had taught her, must almost inevitably hold for a man ofStorran's primitive way of life the fascination of something new andrather wonderful. To contrast his wife with her was to contrast afield-flower with some rare, exotic bloom, and Gillian was consciousof a sudden rush of sympathy for June's unarmoured youth andinexperience.

Magda's curiously uncertain moods of late, too, had worried her not alittle. She was unlike herself--at times brooding and introspective,at other times strung up to a species of forced gaiety--a gaiety whichhad the cold sparkle of frost or diamonds. With all her faults Magdahad ever been lovably devoid of bitterness, but now it seemed asthough she were developing a certain new quality of hardness.

It puzzled Gillian, ignorant of that sudden discovery and immediateloss of the Garden of Eden. It might have been less of an enigma toold Lady Arabella, to whom the jigsaw puzzle of human motives andimpulses was always a matter of absorbing interest, and who, as moreor less an onlooker at life during the last thirty years, had becomean adept in the art of fitting the pieces of the puzzle together.

Magda herself was only conscious of an intense restlessness anddissatisfaction with existence in general. She reflected bitterly thatshe had been a fool to let slip her hold of herself--as she had donethe night of Lady Arabella's reception--even for a moment.

It had been thoroughly drilled into her both by precept and example--her mother's precept and her father's example--that to let a man countfor anything much in her life was the biggest mistake a woman couldmake, and Michael's treatment of her had driven home the truth of allthe warnings Diane had instilled.

He had hurt her as she had never been hurt before, and all that shecraved now was change. Change and amusement to drug her mind so thatshe need not think. Whether anyone else got hurt in the process was aquestion that never presented itself to her.

She had not expected to find amusement at Stockleigh. She had beendriven there by an overmastering desire to escape from London--for afew weeks, at least, to get right away from her accustomed life andfrom everyone who knew her. And at Stockleigh she had found DanStorran.

The homage that had leaped into his eyes the first moment they hadrested on her, and which had slowly deepened as the days slipped by,had somehow soothed her, restoring her feminine poise which Michael'ssudden defection had shaken.

She knew--as every woman always does know when a man is attracted byher--that she had the power to stir this big, primitive countryman,whose way of life had never before brought him into contact with hertype of woman, just as she had stirred other men. And she carelesslyaccepted the fact, without a thought that in playing with DanStorran's emotions she was dealing with a man who knew none of themoves of the game, to whom the art of love-making as a pastime was anunknown quantity, and whose fierce, elemental passions, once aroused,might prove difficult to curb. He amused her and kept her thoughts offrecent happenings, and for the moment that was all that mattered.

CHAPTER XI

STORRAN OF STOCKLEIGH

It was a glorious morning. The sun blazed like a great golden shieldout of a cloudless sky, and hardly a breath of air stirred the foliageof the trees.

Magda, to content an insatiable Coppertop, had good-naturally sufferedherself to be dragged over the farm. They had visited the pigs--a newand numerous litter of fascinating black ones having recently madetheir debut into this world of sin--and had watched the cows beingmilked, and been chased by the irascible gander, and finally, laughingand breathless, they had made good their escape into the garden whereGillian sat sewing, and had flung themselves down exhaustedly on thegrass at her feet.

"I'm in a state of mental and moral collapse, Gilly," declared Magda,fanning herself vigorously with a cabbage leaf. "Whew! It is hot! Assoon as I can generate enough energy, I propose to bathe. Will youcome?"

Gillian shook her head lazily.

"I think not to-day. I want to finish this overall for Coppertop. Andit's such a long trudge from here down to the river."

Gillian's eyes followed her thoughtfully as she made her way into thehouse. She had never seen Magda so restless--she seemed unable to keepstill a moment.

Half an hour later Magda emerged from the house wrapped in a cloak, alittle scarlet bathing-cap turbanning her dark hair, and a pair ofsandals on the slim supple feet that had danced their way into thehearts of half of Europe.

"Good-bye!" she called gaily, waving her hand. And went out by thewicket gate leading into the fields.

There was not a soul in sight. Only the cows, their red, burnishedcoats gleaming like the skin of a horse-chestnut in the hot sun, castruminative glances at her white-cloaked figure as it passed, andoccasionally a peacefully grazing sheep emitted an astonished bleat atthe unusual vision and skedaddled away in a hurry.

Magda emulated Agag in her progress across the field which intervenedbetween the house and the river, now and then giving vent to a littlecry of protest as a particularly prickly thistle or hidden trail ofbramble whipped against her bare ankles.

At last from somewhere near at hand came the cool gurgle of runningwater and, bending her steps in the direction of the sound, twominutes' further walking brought her to the brink of the river.Further up it came tumbling through the valley, leaping the rocks in achurning torrent of foam, a cloud of delicate up-flung sprayfeathering the air above it; but here there were long stretches ofdeep, smooth water where no boulder broke the surface into spume, andquiet pools where fat little trout heedlessly squandered the joyousmoments of a precarious existence.

Magda threw off her wrapper and, picking her way across the moss-grownrocks, paused for an instant on the bank, her slender figure, clad inits close-fitting scarlet bathing-suit, vividly outlined against thesurrounding green of the landscape. Then she plunged in and struck outdownstream, swimming with long, even strokes, the soft moorland waterlaving her throat like the touch of a satin-smooth hand.